


A Red, Red Rose

by nazaleas



Category: All Creatures Great and Small (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Poetry, it's the accent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29804448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nazaleas/pseuds/nazaleas
Summary: Poetry has an effect on people.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	A Red, Red Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this recording of Nicholas Ralph reciting Burns:  
> https://soundcloud.com/user-115260978/192-red-red-rose-by-robert-burns-read-by-nicholas-ralph.

The talent night was a chance for the luminaries of Darrowby to shine, each in their own unique way, with songs and skits and recitations. As usual it was a near thing between the Farnon brothers; Tristan aweing the little ones with a series of magic tricks, and Siegfried sending the older ladies reaching for their handkerchiefs with a mournful delivery of Tennyson's 'Lady of Shalott'. When he was done, he sat down next to James, and nudged him, and much to the collective interest of Darrowby, the younger man unfolded himself from his seat and ascended the stage.

He cleared his throat. "I sort of have to do a Scottish poet," he said, "or I'd be disowned." Everyone chuckled, and he cleared his throat again.

"A Red, Red Rose. By Robert Burns."

It wasn't a long poem. His recitation took barely more than a full minute. But the ladies were dabbing their eyes again when he was done, and for one listener, seated near the back, that moment seemed a beautiful, breathless eternity.

Helen wove through the knots of chatting villagers afterward, eyes fixed on broad, familiar shoulders. She caught up to him in the lane just as he'd almost reached Skeldale House (and could have sworn he'd been walking with Tristan and Mrs. Hall, but they were suddenly nowhere to be seen).

"That was really lovely, James. I thought yours was the best of the night."

"Even better than Siegfried?"

Helen smiled. "Even better than Siegfried."

"Well." He made a little show of puffing himself up, and they both laughed. It was so easy to laugh with James. Everything was easy with James. He smiled at her, head tilted, eyes crinkled, looking at her as if she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

_As fair art thou, my bonnie lass/So deep in luve am I -_

She felt her smile grow still. There was something she needed to know, something she was both desperate for and dreading.

"James?"

"Yes?"

"Did you - was it - was it for me?"

He paused only an instant, but that too felt like an eternity.

"Yes."

Later, she could laugh at herself, being struck dumb at hearing the one thing she'd longed to hear. But in that moment, all she could do was stare at his wonderful face, with absolutely nothing to say for herself. Stare as if he were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

A muffled voice, strangled with frustration, issued from somewhere in the vicinity of Skeldale's darkened kitchen window. "For God's sake, Jim, just kiss her!"

The reverie broke. James coughed, staring at his feet, abashed. Helen crossed her arms. So Tristan didn't think James could manage on his own, did he? How unfair. He'd been endlessly patient with her, probably more than she deserved, and that patience ought to be rewarded.

"Go to bed, Tristan!" she ordered, gratified to see the kitchen curtain twitch slightly. She reached for James's downcast face, smiling once more.

"I'm sorry," James muttered, sheepish. "Tristan-"

"Is a cad. And a good friend. So do as the man says."

He smiled again, and kissed her, and there was poetry in that, too.

"I should go," she murmured when they parted, and he nodded, and brushed his lips to her temple, his breath warm on her ear.

"G'night," he whispered, his voice slipping into the curling lilt of Scots. "An' fare thee weel."

Neither Jenny or her father questioned where she had been, and on the quiet ride home to the farm, she found herself holding two hopes close to her heart. One, that James read Tristan out properly for being a Peeping Tom. And two, that she might have the opportunity to reward his patience again, and soon. The poetry would provide itself.


End file.
